


Convicted Criminals of Thought

by electricmisso



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Blackwood is mentioned but only for the purposes of roasting him, F/F, sorry i missed church i was busy practicing witchcraft and becoming a lesbian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 17:59:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16623755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricmisso/pseuds/electricmisso
Summary: I just, want this to be perfect.





	Convicted Criminals of Thought

**Author's Note:**

> Set at some point after 1x08 I suppose, but it's not that deep. We're all just here for the same gay shit, Deborah.

It was just past four the first time it happened. Frost had already bitten the tips of the grass outside, and an evening chill had crept through the walls of the Spellman home. The draftiness of the old house was to blame, of course, but Zelda had always preferred things on the colder side.

She was sleeping as soundly as was within her realm of possibility; which is to say, not at all, one eye ready to snap open at the first whisper of a niece-related crisis. Zelda hadn’t encountered a deep, absorbing sleep in approximately sixteen years. From time to time, she even envied Hilda’s ghastly snoring, as it suggested an echelon of slumber she simply couldn’t reach.

On the rare occasion Zelda did sleep deeply enough to dream, she could never bring herself to enjoy it. Once she recognized the fuzzy edges surrounding her reveries, she could never unsee them, and the sharp, satisfying sting was taken out of exploring the uncharted domains of her mind. She was either too clever, or too grounded in the need for control, to let the fantasy overtake her, no matter how sumptuous a portrait of hellfire and hedonism.

Zelda’s dreams were rare, but they were never boring.

So it surprised her when the image in her mind’s eye, framed by the bleary outlines of sleep, was simply her bedroom. The only thing out of place was the woman in an emerald green dressing gown, draped across the high back chair in the corner of the room, lower limbs swung over the arm exposing an absolute minefield of leg.

Mary Wardwell. Sabrina’s teacher, and newly-exposed witch. Judging by her wardrobe, this wasn’t meant to be an anxiety nightmare in which they discussed Sabrina’s education. But why... _her?_ Despite their recent bonding over demonic possession, Zelda hadn’t gotten the best of looks at the other woman, at least not in this light, and these shadows. But taking her in now, she couldn’t deny Miss Wardwell’s good looks, or the aura of sex that surrounded her like rolling fog. Perhaps in broad daylight, Zelda hadn’t been in the right frame of mind to recognize desire. And she wasn’t now, if she were being honest, but her mind seemed to have other tricks in store for tonight.

“Good evening, Miss Spellman,” the visitor drawled, breaking the silence. “Sleeping well?”

Zelda propped her drowsy body up onto its elbows. “Well enough that I’m having this conversation with you, I suppose.”

Miss Wardwell released a mirthy chuckle. “Of course you’d be a lucid dreamer. You’re adept in every other arena, why not the dreamscape as well?” She stood, and began charting a course toward Zelda’s bed. “There’s no fooling you. I’m sure you know exactly what I’m here to do.”

She did, of course. It was made clearer by the fact that, as the other woman drew closer, Zelda saw that her breasts were making a successful escape attempt from her nightclothes.

“Can that even be legally considered a robe?”

“Well, I suppose it all depends on what laws we fall under here. This is your dream, Zelda,” she cooed while sitting on the edge of the bed. “You make the rules.”

“Well then,” she said rising from her elbows to sit up in her bed. “So if I told you to get the hell out of my bed chambers, you’d have to...dematerialize?”

Miss Wardwell paused to look skyward, in what Zelda considered a moment of performative reflection. “I suppose I could, but….I must be here for a reason, right? Your subconscious must be trying to tell you something, There must be something that you _need_.”

“My subconscious would do well to mind its own business. I feel perfectly fine with the state of my…” She searched for words while those icy, cat-like eyes waited for an answer. 

“....womanhood. And I truly see no need for this little interlude, no matter how inviting of a specter I’ve been presented.” Zelda had read her fair share of classic mortal literature, and on this night, Mary Wardwell was truly the Ghost of Coitus Yet to Come (or not, she surmised).

“How long has it been, Zelda?”

“Not long at all!” she exclaimed, letting on more consternation than she meant to. “Not that it’s any of your business.” She thought back to her recent dalliance with Father Blackwood, not with regrets, but with misgivings, about allowing fear and shame to be tied to her Satan-given right to enjoy her own body.

“Not since you’ve had intercourse, Zelda. Since intimacy with another has truly fortified you. Not just satisfied you, but connected you to your power, reinforced your faith in the prevailing darkness....”

She had to laugh. “Miss Wardwell, we’re both grown witches. It shouldn’t surprise you that I don’t have the time, nor the energy, or even the desire for life-altering, mind-blowing sex every night. I have a teenager to raise, and a business to run. I’m perfectly content spending my free time reading my Satanic Bible, assisting Sabrina with her studies…”

“...And fucking priests?”

It stunned both of them into silence for a moment.

Zelda then steeled her gaze, but quirked a brow. “For a figment of my imagination, you’re quite judgmental.” 

Miss Wardwell, with her eyes imploring and her chest inviting, changed her tone, something closer to a plea. “Zelda, that’s not what this is about in the slightest. Of course you could do better than him, and you have. But you have to realize it’s more than that. Sex shouldn’t make you feel weak; it should affirm the strong and powerful witch that you are.”

On some level, Zelda knew this was her speaking to herself, that she’d just dreamt up Miss Wardwell as a vessel to boss her around, scold her in that teacherly manner for not living up to her full potential. But even in the deepest recesses of her psyche, her most harmful moments of self doubt, she’d never thought of herself as weak.

“It doesn’t,” she added plaintively, attempting to disguise her wistfulness, “but I’ve certainly never visited this...sexual utopia, where uncertainty in oneself doesn’t seem to exist. Even in my most...epicurean entanglements.”

“Maybe,” Miss Wardwell drawled, “you’re not doing it with the right people.” This woman, Zelda thought, flits so quickly from actualization soapbox to borderline pornographic niceties that she can barely keep up. She looked the other witch up and down, wondering at what point she’d gotten so close that their hip bones were touching, only separated by her bedspread.

“And I suppose that’s what you are - the right people.”

Miss Wardwell batted her eyelashes. “I guess you could say that. It looks like I’m, quite literally, your dream girl.”

“Spare me.” Zelda only softly rolled her eyes, but she articulated at full bore. “If you were my dream girl, you wouldn’t be talking so much.”

“Oh, I’m perfectly fine with us being done talking.” And with a snap of her thin fingers, the blanket between them disappeared. Zelda’s long, elegant nightgown must have hitched up during her sleeping hours, so that now her legs were all but completely exposed to the cool night air.

Her thighs were as pure as porcelain, which betrayed Miss Wardwell’s impure intentions for them.

But she could sense the smallest tinge of unease in Zelda, at being so exposed, laid literally bare.

“I’m not some boorish man, Zelda. I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to.” Her tone took on a new earnestness, while somehow still buzzing with desire. “There’s nothing erotic in taking something from someone who doesn’t want to give it. And besides, the only thing more exciting than one powerful witch in control of her body is...two of them.”

Zelda considered the other woman’s words. They weren’t given out of sympathy, or pity, but necessity. As if the whole point of the exercise was for Zelda to _choose_ her pleasure, that the dream wasn’t going to choose for her.

“Keep going. I’ll tell you if I want you to stop.”

And at that, Mary Wardwell’s grin grew into something that even the uninitiated would recognize as devilish. “Good girl,” she said, before maneuvering in between Zelda’s legs.

At first, she trailed her well-manicured nails up and down Zelda’s inner thighs, not to mark her (although Zelda wouldn’t have particularly minded), but to awaken the nerves there, and to generate heat in between.

“Look at me, Zelda.” Their eyes made contact. One pair was searching, longing, hanging in the balance; the other was practically aflame. Without breaking their connection, Miss Wardwell closed her painted lips and blew a soft breath over the other woman’s clitoris. Zelda let out a breathy sigh and locked her eyes shut.

“Keep looking. I want you to see what I’m doing to you.”

It was only after torturous minutes of no direct contact that she began to lavish the bundle of nerves with her tongue, and even more before it was taken between her painted lips.

“More,” Zelda pleaded, becoming more undone with every second. It was the eyes, more than anything, that slowly unraveled Zelda Spellman until there was no trace left of the pristine, well-mannered portrait she’d painted of herself. And when her lover pumped two fingers inside of her, she couldn’t keep her eyes from snapping shut, and let out what can only be quantified as an almighty roar.

Before Zelda had finished scaling back down from her climax, Miss Wardwell had travelled up her body and brought their lips together in a fervent kiss. Zelda had forgotten this was all a dream, no longer able to distinguish the haze of illusion from that of orgasm. But she was reminded of the fact that this wasn’t real when, as her hand stroked her lover’s cheek, the bone there pricked her finger tip, and drew red blood.

And yet still, their embrace only grew more urgent. Zelda began to guide her lips southward, by way of the other woman’s neck, toward her prominently displayed decolletage. 

“No, no, Zelda. Not tonight.”

At that she scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she scolded, and drew her lips back to Miss Wardwell’s chest.

“You’ve done enough for one night, and absolutely marvelously, darling.”

“Don’t patronize me!” Zelda Spellman’s lust and anger were a dangerous cocktail to hold a flame near. And yet, there was Mary Wardwell, chuckling.

“Don’t you worry, my dear, I’ll return to you soon enough.” She brought her lips to Zelda’s ear, and spoke in an almost silent whisper. “But right now, you’re late for your morning cigarette.”

And just like that, Zelda was awake, bathed in the sunlight pouring through her window, alone again.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Zelda was not stupid. She knew that trying her damndest to fall asleep would only keep her awake for longer. But she craved another night of passion with that incorrigible visitor, and only slumber would bring her back into Zelda’s bedchambers once more. But she spent the first night after their tryst miserably awake, the hours stretching into oblivion until sunrise.

This meant, of course, that the next day, Zelda was quite cantankerous and borderline insufferable. And after quite a long day of embalming, and chain smoking, she was asleep mere seconds after her head met her pillowcase.

“Did you miss me?”

There was no need for pretense on this night. Mary Wardwell was hovering directly next to the bed, and upon first sight, Zelda pulled her down into a continuation of their last kiss, and encouraging her paramour to straddle her waist on the way down. 

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“For the love of Satan, please shut up.” Zelda was ravenous, pawing at the other woman as if her fingers had no met flesh for centuries. “I’ve been thinking about this, and nothing but this, for two days.”

As they kissed, Miss Wardwell ran her fingers through Zelda’s hair, as if to calm her. “Slow down, darling. There’s no need to rush. Dreams can last as long as we want them to, and you have plenty of dreams waiting for you yet. We have time for every last one of your fantasies...at least we would, if you’d stop fretting so much and let yourself sleep…”

“I won’t apologize for you ruining me.”

“Ah, but it’s quite a delicious ruin, isn’t it?”

Zelda considered the witch on top of her, hair askew, heat radiating from between her legs. “That it is,” she asserted, “if only the waking weren’t a part of it.” She paused, and it was her turn to whisper. “Don’t tell the real Miss Wardwell, but I almost wish this wasn’t all happening inside my head.”

“It _is_ happening inside your head, Zelda, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?”

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

But of course, this was real. Of course the great and powerful Lilith, Dawn of Doom, had charmed Zelda to believe this was all a dream, when in fact, she had climbed through her window and acted as a self-developed fantasy in order to ravish her, and free her from her misguided attachment to Father Blackwood and his patriarchal mores.

She had meant every word, about Zelda’s power, and how she deserved to wield it, along with full command of her carnality. And she knew a witch such as Zelda Spellman would hede her words, channel them into her witching ethos, and her bed.

But she also knew that Zelda would never again be able to look at the body of Mary Wardwell without clenching those porcelain thighs. Every guardian-teacher conference, every Church tea, every moment they spent together, she would be unable to concentrate, driven wild with desire. And she’d think Miss Wardwell wouldn’t know what they did in her dreams, that her secrets were safe in the confines of her fantasies. But secrets are never safe from the Mother of Demons.

The hum in Zelda’s chest pulled her back into their heated tryst. “Mary…” she moaned.

“Dear Satan, I hate that name. It makes me sound so... _virginal._ ”

“Well, what would you like me to call you then? Miss Wardwell?”

“Of course not, silly. But...if you’re interested in an authority figure, you could call me…Madam.”

Zelda set free a dark smile. “I think I’d like that."

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. hello! thanks for reading! this is only my second fic ever and i was still very scared to post it! yeehaw!  
> 2\. i am very, very sorry that i cannot stop making references to other pop culture ephemera within this fic this is why i have no friends.  
> 2b. i do stand by my title, however, which is simply a reference to the fact that i am, above all else, Certified Gaga Trash™.  
> 2c. if you *would* like to be my friend, come visit me on tumblr @ electric-eccentricity. there's more gay stuff!


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